until we can no longer hold the sky
by Tsume Yuki
Summary: All those gestures, all those dances between Sun and Sky, it blinded him. For the six months it lasts, Renato thinks, those six months are the happiest six months of his life. (Female Harry Potter/Master of Death Harry Potter)
1. Chapter 1

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 **Part 1**

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It is on a sunny day in southern France, not a half mile away from one of the country's prettier beaches, that Reborn meets the most important person in his life.

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Of course, this is in the days when there was no Reborn, World's Greatest Hitman.

No, this is during a time when one Renato Sinclair is out and about, making a name for himself and swiftly becoming a man spoken about in hushed whispers at mafia parties.

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France isn't his usual territory; he's there for a hit and nothing more. A hit he had accomplished a mere thirty minutes ago. His hotel accommodation is far enough away that no one would think to relate him to that terrible crime scene, but he's in no hurry to rush off. After all, only the guilty run first and fast. Well, the stupidly guilty.

The intelligent guilty party lingers, acts as if it is all a tragedy that will pass from their mind as soon as the country is behind them.

That is exactly what Renato does, it's exactly why he's situated by the hotel's bar, enjoying the warmth of the summer sun upon his skin, shirtsleeves rolled up just past his elbows.

Two ladies walk by, each sending him the usual appreciative looks and Renato offers them a smile in return, a gentle dip of his head that has them giggling behind their hands. While lesser than his homeland in every way, France in the very least has some beautiful women.

Sipping on a White Russian, Renato's eyes slink over his surrounding, searching for any discrepancies. And he finds one. Just, not in the way he'd been expecting.

She's a pretty thing alright, obnoxiously bright red hair and vivid green eyes, all matched up to a pretty face that's gathering more than a few admiring looks.

It's not her features that has him enthralled though; it's the sheer amount of harmony that's bleeding off of her form, not quite visible but the presence is there.

Sky Flames.

The potency of them is staggering; he who has never once been enticed in by a Sky, has always found them too weak, too diluted... but there is just no ignoring this.

She must have only just gone active; he'd have heard of a Sky this strong through the grapevine, no matter the country. He cannot possibly walk away; if she'd just been a pretty face he might have ignored her. There are plenty of other women about, after all, and there are a handful prettier than she present. But those flames...

Placing his empty glass (when had he even necked it all?) down upon the counter, Renato flags down a waitress, gesturing to the Sky sat on her own.

"I'll buy the lady's next drink."

"O-of course, Sir."

He doesn't turn around again, content to watch her reflection within the bar's many glasses.

She's European in appearance, wearing a worn golden tee-shirt a size too large for her, the hem tucked into the waistband of her denim shorts.

It takes three minutes for her to order another drink, and when it's presented to her, Renato smirks as startled green eyes look to him.

He doesn't expect her to get up and make her way over to him.

Where are the guardians? Her minder? Her bodyguards? She's a Sky, a Sky stronger than anything he's ever felt before but she's out and about and no protection has descended upon him yet. Why? Is this some kind of trick, a trap set up to reel him in, leave him defenceless?

But then, why risk such a powerful Sky being out in the open? It is not as if Renato has a gentle reputation; he's a gentleman, he has an appreciation for the ladies, and he's made it damn well clear what happens to those who cross him.

The more potent than should be possible Sky sits herself down beside him at the bar, one tanned leg crossing over the other and her eyes are even more vivid up close.

"So, the drink… Am I just your flavour of the night?"

Elbow on the countertop, fist cushioning her cheek and a teasing smile wrapped around the straw between her lips, red-hair smiles. She's opted for French, but there's a terribly thick British accent overlaying it. Probably the reason why he's never heard of this Sky before; the British don't leave their home country all that often, there's very little underworld presence there when compared against Italy.

"Not at all; more a silent invitation for company. You look awfully lonely on your own."

Despite the switch to English, her smile becomes a brittle thing, eyes sad.

"I'm a long way from home and I really have no reason to go back. Company would be nice."

"Ho? No guardians?"

Her brow crinkles in confusion and were he a lesser man, Renato would gawk.

Genuine confusion. This Sky, this Sky that is far from home and not refuting his description of 'lonely'… doesn't appear to know what a guardian is, not in respects to her flames… Does she even know about them? Is that why they're bleeding out so potently, calling to his own, trying to entice them out of his core to join her own in a wonderous dance? He cannot sense the usual undertones, the hidden schemes of those that try to capture him in harmony.

"I'm an adult," Sky who's too pure to be true mutters dubiously, "which I hope you realised before buying me a drink."

Renato barks out a laugh, his shoulder shaking with the sheer absurdity of this whole incident.

"I think we need to have a little chat then, Innamorata."

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The lady's name is Hariel Lillian Potter and she doesn't have the slightest idea what dying will flames are.

She listens raptly as he explains, drink forgotten by her elbow and Renato doesn't even feel irritated at the waste of quality alcohol. This is far more important.

The lady stills when informed her very being will draw any and all flame actives to her, figurative moths to a literal flame.

When he admits he has not the slightest clue how she's slipped under the radar for so long, how she hasn't signalled down ever last flame active in two hundred or so miles, she gives another one of those brittle smiles.

"I guess there were protections where I was," she murmurs, tucking one wavy lock behind her ear, the stress of her situation clear in the slouch of her slender shoulders. The wide collar of her shirt as dipped to one side, exposing a sharp clavicle, intersected by the thin black strap of the bikini top beneath.

"Is it not possible to return to them? Or devise more protections in your new location?"

"Not really. I don't know how to do that and everyone is… no long in a position I can contact them."

And just like that, the full implications of this hit him head on.

Because Harry is a Sky, the most powerful Sky he's ever felt, and she does not have any guardians. She clearly doesn't have a family (both the blood relations or a Famiglia) from the way she speaks; she's all alone and everything in him says that shouldn't be. That he should not, under any circumstances, leave this woman on her own. It would be so incredibly easy for someone worse than he to take advantage of such a pure Sky, a Sky so thoroughly displaced in the world.

"For how long do you plan on staying in France, Innamorata?"

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Hariel Potter is staying in a hotel not far from his own. That makes things infinitely easier; not only does he get an excuse to kill time between a hit (get to kill time and not look as if he's suspiciously fleeing back to the country considered by all lawful personnel as mafia central), but he gets to spend that time with a rather attractive woman who just so happens to be a powerhouse Sky.

Today, Hariel has selected a lovely gold sundress, offset by a thick belt at the waist in a deep red that matches her sandals.

"So, Renato. You think you can show me the wonders of southern France?"

"While it is no Italy, I do believe I can try, Innamorata."

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They spend two glorious weeks together, traversing France with little care for any long-term plans, simply living in the moment. They take a yacht out across the ocean, visit the local forts and chateaus, eat out every night at whatever restaurant catches their fancy.

It is on the fifteenth day that Renato realises they're unofficially dating.

This is not an element courting a Sky, nor a Sky enticing an element. It's more than that. Harmony (the chance of true harmony that he had long ago resigned himself to being too powerful a sun to ever experience) is right there, all he has to do is just reach out and take hold.

Still, he hesitates.

Hariel, for all that he's given her a gentle induction to the mafia world (there's no getting around it, not with flames like that)… doesn't exactly know that he's a hitman. He's well aware of what non-mafia personnel think of his job. Murderer. Even if he's only the tool, even he's only the method.

Could he harmonise with Hariel whilst keeping such a thing secret? No. No he could not, not with a clear conscience. Renato might be selfish, but he's not that self-serving.

But in the end, he's not the one that pushes that bond over the edge.

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They're sitting at a quaint little bar, Hariel perched across from him, sections of her wavy hair burning bright in the summer sum that leaks in through the thatched roof. Her lips are curving up in a smile, wrapped around an obnoxiously bright pink straw of the large cocktail they're sharing. Personally, Renato has no real preference towards the fruiter drinks, but Hariel does and he's more than happy to share.

Her flip-flops are on the ground, her bare feet edging back and forth across the wooden legs of her stool, ankle occasionally knocking against his shin.

The blue concoction they're steadily draining has dyed her tongue a splendidly bright cyan; Hariel laughs when she notices, sticking her tongue out at him before her lips retake the straw, sucking long and slow as she meets his gaze from under half-lidded eyes. It's incredible how at ease with him she's become, to the point she fearlessly teases him like this; Renato's long since kicked his own flip-flops off in order to start slowly trailing his foot up the lower half of her calf.

"Don't tease."

"Who said anything about teasing?" Hariel snipes back, sly smile on her lips, now rolling the straw back and forth between the pads of her forefinger and thumb.

With the little plastic spoon, she scoops up a chunk of pineapple, leaving it situated between her teeth, eyebrows raised in a silent challenge.

"Ho? I thought you were running."

He's still not sure what she's running from, if it's fools that wish to use her or something far more ominous.

This Sky that is so dangerously close to becoming his Sky just wiggles her brows, pushing her lips out ever so slightly, the chunk of pineapple a silent invitation. How can Renato possibly resist?

He leans in, presses his lips against hers and works the fruit free from her, tongue a brief brush against her own.

He doesn't retreat, just draws his lips back enough that they can speak, noses still nudging against one another.

"I think, maybe, that I want someone to run with now."

It's a sudden flood, racing in from nowhere and everywhere at once. Harmony, a sensation unlike anything he's ever known and a shuddering gasp escapes Hariel, air racing across his wet lips as he releases a surprised breath of his own.

"There's a lot you don't know about me."

"I can say the same thing," Hariel whispers, something tender and fragile in her eyes. It's trust, Renato realises. It's been such a long time since he's seen that in another eyes, at least when directed at him.

"You don't know what I do for a living."

"And you don't know how dangerous I can be."

"Ho?"

Pink flesh swipes out to lick at dry lips and then Renato is kissing her again, one hand tilting her chin up as the other rests on the curve of her waist, fingertips brushing the beginning swell of her hip. Her lips hold the sweet taste of their latest cocktail, soft and moist and she feels like home already, this Sky of his.

"I look forwards to finding out."

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They arrive in Italy with little fanfare. All of Hariel's worldly possessions fit into one old fashioned, deceptively light trunk; of course Renato is the one to drag it along, thankful that the luggage comes with wheel.

He has one hand clasped on the handle, the other wrapped up in Hariel's. Her thumb strokes at the knuckle of his forefinger, the skin there rough at the edge, accustomed to the handle of a gun. It's a reoccurring gesture, something that has become a common occurrence between them, a silent reassurance that the other is present, that the bond they'd built is true.

It's not love, not yet. There hasn't been enough time for that; only three weeks have passed.

Yet, it's well on its way, it can potentially become just that. There's a companionship between them, an ease Renato has experienced with no other before.

Hariel Potter sits and she listens, she doesn't rush in head first. Oh, she wants to. He can see it in the way her muscles twitch; what he witnesses, it's a learned reaction. She must have been burnt from one too many headlong rushes.

While her face twists in displeasure as he informs her of his profession, she doesn't flee. Slowly, she comes around to the idea, accepts that he is just the method. If they use Renato or another, his clients will have their target dead, one way or another. She calms significantly when he explains the rigorous process with which he chooses his targets. He doesn't murder innocent men and women, doesn't murder children, innocent or not.

And once that is out of the way, Hariel quietly informs him of her magic.

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Curled up in the familiar comforts of his own bed, Renato reaches across the empty space that had once been so much larger, arms wrapping around Hariel's waist.

His eyes linger on the long scar on her back, the one that came about as collateral damage when she was stealing from a dragon.

He huffs beneath his breath, doing his damn best not to smile over the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

Hariel hasn't shared why she's running, but he can make a guess.

They tried to contain the sky, tried to hold a Sky to standards without even offering guardian bonds. From the sounds of it, they'd all had no idea what flames were, didn't know that Skies don't exactly like being told the morals they're supposed to support. Didn't know that Skies are the core and that it is a very bad idea to try and limit their thinking, their development.

It probably didn't help matters that Hariel's flames have a cloudy flavour to them too.

Lips curving up into a smile, Renato reels Hariel in, pressing a closed mouth kiss to the flesh of her shoulder before letting his eyes slowly shut.

In the familiar comforts of his apartment, wrapped up in the snugness of silk sheets and Sky flames, Renato falls back to sleep.

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That's how things continue, their routine only punctuated by the odd job he takes.

It's not that dislikes taking hits (until recently he had lived for his work), but they take him away from Hariel. She remains in his apartment, having rigged the place with all sorts of magic to prevent others from coming in, from discovering where he lives and (most importantly) that she is there too. That there's a Sky hanging around.

So, he might take hits that can be completed quickly, and he might spend more time than he'd have previously thought reasonable worrying after the little lady.

But his English Sky is always there, waiting for him with a smile on her face and something cooking in the oven. She gifts him her invisibility cloak, citing the fact she doesn't really need it anymore, not when those who'd come looking for her would never be able to reach this world. Renato doesn't ask. It's a wonderous gift; even the handful of Mists he's encountered while wearing it haven't been able to tell he's there. Truly wonderous.

But he does acknowledge what he's known since the start, despite how much it grates.

Hariel needs more guardians.

This is no life for her, sitting content in his apartment. Yes, she may have no problem with it, but a Sky with a lone guardian is a painful thing indeed, almost as bad as a Sky with no guardians.

It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact Renato gets twitchy when they're apart, knowing she has no form of protection.

But then, who would he entrust her with? It'd have to be guardians with no substantial ties, ones who don't have extended family that'd want to use his precious Sky. Strong potential guardians that fit such a criteria are... well, the list is exceptionally short.

It's irritating, beyond irritating, but then Hariel will do something particularly distracting and he'll forget about it for a little while.

Like right now; he had been considering scouting out a lead on a particularly strong Storm over in China (one well known for his tendency to rescue children and women when not on a job), but then Hariel had planted herself in his lap, crinkling the papers he'd been flicking through.

Head tilting rakishly to consider the petite woman that's suddenly in his personal space, Renato slowly places the documents to a side, half balanced on the edge of the coffee table. They'll fall off with the slightest nudge, but he really cannot care less.

There's something far more interesting in his lap right now.

"How can I help you, Innamorata?"

Hariel grins, green eyes bright and the hands that had been resting on his upper thighs work their way up, outlining his sides, smoothing the crisp material of his shirt out along his ribs until her fingers are working across his shoulders. Then she leans in, lips brushing against his, just a quick teasing peck and he follows after her as she draws back, capturing that lower lip between his teeth, tongue swiping across the soft flesh. She's wearing some kind of lip-gloss, oranges. It tastes good.

"Put the papers away for a bit, Ren," she murmurs, thighs tensing slightly where they frame his own and Renato responds by trailing his fingers down the length of her spine.

"Ho? Are you offering to entertain me, Innamorata?"

"Always, Ren. Always."

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He shouldn't have gotten distracted.

Should have kept looking for fellow Guardians.

Shouldn't have gotten lost in the sweet kisses, the teasing winks, the little touches.

All those gestures, all those dances between Sun and Sky, it blinded him.

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For the six months it lasts, Renato thinks, those six months are the happiest six months of his life.

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He's never frozen up before, never gone into shock.

Even his first kill; he'd kept a calm cool head, retreated to a place secure enough that he was safe to come to terms with what had happened.

This isn't his first kill.

This isn't the first time he's lost someone.

But it is the first time (the only time) that his Sky is bleeding out in front of him.

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His hands have never trembled, not since he mastered wielding his first gun; he's always been a steady shot. He wouldn't be able to hit a target three feet in front of him right now.

His knees are shaking; it feels as if the whole world has stopped.

Hariel is on the ground, a huge chunk of her torso missing, and his Sky is bleeding out in front of him. The civilians she'd saved watch on, horrified.

His flames come to his hands too late (it'd been too late the moment she was hit). He presses them into her side too late- it's all just too late.

His Sky, the one who showed him what Harmony truly is-

She promised him always. Forever.

One finger taps at his mouth; sad green eyes and an apologetic smile.

He's left with the corpse, the corpse of his Sky.

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Even in death those vivid eyes (those eyes that drew him in, one of the very first things he'd noticed outside of her flames) still watch him.

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Weeks later, it is still whispered about.

The Solar Flare Massacre. The Sun that went supernova as his Sky died in his arms. Who tore apart every last member of a now tabooed family that none dare speak of, who hunted each and every member to the ends of the earth. Of a hitman that earned his title as the World's Greatest.

The sheer explosion of grieving, raging Sun flames had burned up every last person in the vicinity, had destroyed an entire block of a historic Italian city. Civilian and criminal alike had just ceased to exist.

He'd been the only thing left, left there cradling the cold dead body of his Sky.

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From there on, it's six years of mourning, six years of defending his title as the World's Greatest Hitman. It's six years of constant job after job because there is nothing left (always is nevermore).

It's six years of being Reborn, because Renato Sinclair died the same day as the world's strongest Sky.

It's six years and a shady invitation that's accepted, for what else does he have in life now but the job.

Then, it's twenty years cursed.

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It's twenty-six years before Hariel Lilian Potter opens her eyes again, reborn and with another chance to save her Sun.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

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Hariel Lilian Potter is three years old when she comes back to full consciousness. She's in England, covered in soot and there's the smouldering remains of what she assumes was a house not a few feet from her. Her magic stretches out, tasting the air but it seems she's still in the other world, the one that has no magicals, the one that has flames instead. The one that has her Sun, her Renato.

Eyes snapping back open, the little three-year-old considers the overcooked carcass of what had once been a house. Clearly she's been reborn in some way, given a second chance to get it right. She prays Renato is still out there, prays he's still living, still breathing. She has to find him, has to find her Sun, her Guardian.

(She valiantly ignores the fact their relationship can never be what it once was. Not when she's only 3 years old and, last she knew, Ren had been in his late twenties. It'll be at least two decades before they could be realistically romantically involved. That's fine; Harry's sure Ren will be a silver fox in his old age anyway)

Brushing herself down, displacing the ash from her shirt, Hariel curls the wisps of hair behind her ears and begins walking.

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She's picked up by the authorities in the end; they have no idea who she is; Hariel offers her true name up but they get no results. All the while, as the government branch that've now responsible for her try to figure out where to place her, Hariel muses.

She hadn't saved those civilians. Hadn't thrown herself in front of that attack to save innocent lives. She'd not have considered them if it weren't for one thing and one thing only.

Ren has been in the line of fire. And she'd die a thousand deaths before she let anyone kill her Sun.

Hariel has no choice but to wait, to work at accumulating the resources to get out of England, to make her way to Italy and find her Ren.

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The opportunity comes sooner than she expected. Aged nine, Hariel Potter obliviates the family (kind and comforting as they have tried to be) that she'd been place with and disappears.

Several portkeys later, as she's standing before the apartment. No, she's standing before their old apartment block. She can already Tell Ren's not here, that he hasn't been here in years. The trail of his flames (overpoweringly warm, heating her skin until sweat threatens to pour down her brow, the Sun in every sense of the word) is absent. As she makes her way through the corridors, the place almost deathly silent in life where it remains a full of noise and vigour in her memories, Hariel trails her fingers across the walls. The bullet hole Ren had caused after a rude awakening by a neighbour persists, worn by time but still present.

Approaching the door to their old apartment, Hariel spots the stain that'd been left when she'd accidentally tipped a pot of nail varnish, distracted by Ren's wandering hands. When she tries the handle, she finds it locked. Nothing a quick flash of her magic can't fix but... but they had never bothered to actually lock the door. A locked door wasn't going to keep out anyone determined to intrude. No, that'd been her spellwork. On the off chance anyone got passed that (not that anyone ever did), well, Ren slept with a gun on the night side table for a reason. Still, for the door to have been locked, even though she's told Ren her spells would persist for hundreds of years, long after her death...

Hariel pushes the door open, walking slowly, carefully, inside. There are only the skeletal remains of their life together now. Her trunk lies under the windowsill, locked up tight and with a thick layer of dust topping it. There's Ren's gun on the bedside, untouched and unused during the years that have passed. All the photos are gone, though the frames that once held them remain. Hariel traces her eyes over their empty carcasses, worrying her lip back and forth. That'd been the photo in Southern France. The one left of it had been the photo of her first time on Italy's beach. On the right, their trip to the colosseum. On the far right, the photo Ren had taken of her sleeping. The prick. Swallowing around the lump in her throat, Hariel kneels by the loose floorboard, the one Ren had insisted on not fixing because it made an excellent warning for the intruders they never experienced.

Hariel had spent a day once walking on it, just to watch Ren's shoulders twitch in irritation at the noise.

Slowly, she prises it up, finding the small collection of photos hidden beneath. There's two of Ren, one where he's sleeping, another taken in the first light of morning, where he'd half-hunched over his coffee and all but inhaling the fumes. The final one is of the two of them, posing on a beach (she forgets which, only that the weather had been particularly pleasant that day), taken by a well-meaning stranger. Her hair was wet from a Renato-enforced dip in the sea, sand sticking to both their forearms. Hariel presses the picture close to her chest and tries (fails) not to cry.

"I'm gonna find you," she whispers, peeling the photo away to stare at the image again. She needs her trunk, Hariel thinks. Her trunk and Ren's old gun, just for safe-keeping. Rooting through the closet exposes everything has been removed. All but the one shirt Hariel had taken great care to mock every-time Ren wore it. The burnt yellow dress-shirt with 'SKY' embroidered on the inner breast pocket. Invisible to the outside, but the cheesiness of the whole thing well-known between the two of them.

Hariel puts it on. It doesn't make that it falls past her knees. She'll grow into it, she'll wear it as an open jacket with the sleeves rolled up if necessary. But until she finds Renato, the one shirt he's left her will have to do.

Even if they can't be lovers anymore, the bond they had transcends the physical; they were a Sky and a Sun. Renato was a light.

And, until she sees his dead body, she'll keep believing he is her light.

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From there, throughout the years, she travels through Europe, searching almost fruitlessly for her Sun, for her Renato.

Everywhere she asked, every person with any connections to the Mafia, insisted that Renato Sinclair had disappeared after the Solar Flare Massacre. The day Hariel Lillian Potter had originally died.

No matter where she turns, every last question is met with blank faces, a total information blackout. It's the most frustrating problem she has ever encountered. And Hariel has lived a life with more than her fair share of problems.

She spends more than half a decade traversing through the countries of Europe, lingering within Italy and France far more than what is reasonable. Just because that is where they spent most of their time, doesn't mean that is where he will be now. Renato's job before her appearance had taken him all over the world. Billions of people, and she's looking for a single one among them. It's unrealistic to expect to find him quickly. To expect to find him at all.

She never once entertains the idea of giving up. Though she does greatly regret charming those undetectable cufflinks he seems to never take off (she refuses to believe he's not registering because he's dead. Renato and 'dead' don't work in the same sentence. Not unless that sentence is 'Renato's the reason this person is dead').

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As she reaches her thirteen year, she finds herself visiting Family after Family, attempting to see if there's any with connections to Renato at all.

Flames suppressed -because she has no desire to get kidnapped and forced into the Mafia on anything but her own terms- Hariel approaches them all, and each time, she's turned away.

On some occasions, she manages to meet with the boss, other times it's underlings that send her on her way. But regardless, each time is the same.

Discounting one, that is.

Harry visits the Estraneo family, whom have made leaps and bounds when it comes to Flame Theory, hoping they can create a way to track down her missing Sun.

Then she finds out just why they've been making such advancements in the field.

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The Estraneo burn that night, and as Hariel Potter deposits far too many children with the local authority (hopeful that they won't be picked up by the mafia), Rokudo Mukuro finds himself a role model.

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"Come out. I know you're there."

There's a moment of still silence, Hariel seated in the comforts of a leather booth in a near empty café. Then, the air shimmers and she's no longer alone.

Sitting across from her in the booth, the child she'd mentally tagged as 'most disturbed' of the kids she'd rescued from the Estraneo peers back at her, one eye blue, the other a startlingly bright red. He's young, younger than she was when she first went to Hogwarts, too young to have experienced the kind of trauma he has. Too young to have confidentially tracked her across half of Italy on his own. Only, that's exactly what he's done.

"You saved us. You took down all the Estraneo on your own." The boy slouches across the table, exhaustion clear on his face. Hariel pushes her plate towards him, already waving down the one waitress on duty. Toast sacrificed to the child, Hariel orders two large sandwiches to go, ham and cheese (because you can't go wrong with ham and cheese) and a glass of orange juice. Tracker child offers her a mulish glare around his mouthful of toast but he's too thin and Hariel won't hear any of it.

"I did. What they were doing with wrong and you didn't deserve it."

"I know that. Just like I know you're a Sky. A Sky without a Mist Guardian. And I'm a very strong Mist."

"You're, what, eight?"

"Nine, actually," the boy mutters, scowling even as he licked the butter from his fingertips. "I'm Mukuro Rokudo and I want to be your Mist. You won't find a better one than me." That… that Hariel can believe. His eyes burn with determination, an age to them that she's uncomfortably familiar with. She knows, just like she knows her own magic, that Mukuro won't leave her alone. That he'll follow after her without any consideration for her own thoughts and feelings. That, even if she denies him now, he'll still follow her. And, for all that he id clearly capable… He's also a nine-year old child. She's the adult here, despite how her body appears. He's her responsibility, has been since she peeled his half-starved form off that operating table.

"Hariel Potter. I'm not doing anything grand, I'm just looking for someone. Someone important to me."

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* * *

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They spend a lot of years in Italy, popping in and out whenever the rumour of 'The World's Greatest Hitman' moving about reaches their ears.

Hariel has tried to send Mukuro away only once, but the boy had shaken his head, insisting that he will stay by Hariel's side, that he won't leave her.

What goes unsaid is that he sees her as the strongest woman in the world, the barrier between him and all those that bring the threat of pain and entrapment.

She is his freedom, is what he doesn't say, and he refuses to leave the side of one he has bonded so closely to.

Even if that means she drags him from country to country, even if it means tracking through forests and jungles, even if it means sailing down rivers and climbing up mountains.

The world is an adventure, a bold stretch of unrestricted movement, but Mukuro always remains by her side, for it is there, he feels safe for the first time he can remember.

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Years pass, and Hariel is several weeks off of turning seventeen when she comes across her first solid lead, even if it comes with a hefty price tag.

Mammon of the famed Varia has heard of a young woman asking after a 'Renato Sinclair' and thought nothing of it.

The fact the woman has been asking these questions for over half a decade warranted significant investigation. Why chase after a dead man, after all? Ture, the Solar Flare Massacre was something of legends now, but to look for information when all those involved are dead… or presumed dead, brings up unwanted questions. Mammon doesn't like unanswered questions. The last unanswered question they'd been faced with had ended in a curse body and no hope to see such a state reversed.

It is with a tentative approach that the miser sets up a meeting between them. For a fee, of course.

.

When the meeting occurs, well, it certainly is interesting. If they hadn't already bonded to Boss, if the girl didn't already have a Mist, Mammon would have probably made a bid for those Sky Flames. Oh, they are doing well to hide them, but hiding in plain sight is Mammon's speciality. It only takes a little digging to uncover what the girl is hiding and, once they do, it's like a slap in the face. The sheer potency of those flames... it makes sense why her little Mist is still a little flame-drunk, despite having clearly basked in those flames for a good few months.

"I can give you Renato Sinclair's last movements before he disappeared." Mammon had, after all, tracked the man following the Solar Flare case. The Sun user had managed to give them the slip after two days, but it was two days-worth of information nobody else on this planet had. And this little Sky is clearly desperate for it. Her hair, a deep wine red, is pulled back into a high-pony-tail, exposing the acid green of her eyes. Eyes that give no quarter.

"How do I know that this information isn't going to be useless to me?" Oh, it probably will be. Mammon doesn't say that, however. Just runs a tiny hand over Phantasm's back, pouting.

"Fine. I'll throw in the information of the last person he contacted before the massacre. Though I want triple my fee."

"Done."

The little Mist beside the girl grits his teeth, eyes narrowed. It really is a fledgling Guardian bond. How… cute.

"Who did he contact."

And there's a wild, animalistic sort of burn in the depth of the girl's eyes. The kind of gleam that exists only in the eyes of the other Varia, of a flame user with nothing left to do but prove they can accomplish their one task. Someone who won't care who they step on in order to achieve their ends.

"You need to find the Storm Arcobaleno. Fon."

There, let them be Fon's problem now. Serves the bastard right.

.

* * *

.

It takes Hariel an unfortunate amount of time to find Fon, hidden away in the mountains of China as he is. To the point where she even begins to question if she has been sent on a wild goose chase.

Mukuro is already sure of it, the humidity of the weather weighing down his hair, leaving it sticking uncomfortably to his forehead. The teen is evidentially not impressed, for all that he sticks close to her, there's almost palpable waves of fury rolling off his form. Hariel doesn't mind. It has taken her several years to accept, but Mukuro is her Mist Guardian. It hadn't sat right with her, even now he's still a kid, for all the horrors that he's seen she doesn't wish to drag him deeper into the Mafia. She'd supposed to look after him.

No, she would be the one looking after him. End of story.

Pulling out a carton of mango juice, Hariel hands it over to her disgruntled Mist, forcibly keeping her pity from her face. She could have made things easier with her magic, but Mukuro had refused her offer, so onwards they trudge beneath the warm sun.

During their mad quest to locate this Fon fellow, they had stumbled across a rather... Interesting character just yesterday. Hariel still isn't quite sure what to make of Kawahira. Something about him had set off every warning bell in Hariel's stomach, in the same way she got washed up by a deep wave of loneliness that seemed to pour out of the man. When he'd clocked the fact the stranger had Mist flames, Mukuro had gotten terribly territorial about her, threading his fingers through hers and glaring for all that he was worth. Yet, for all that the stranger had discomforted her dear Mist (her younger brother, though neither of them will voice that particular thought aloud) … he'd confirmed Ren is still alive.

Hariel clings to that, clings to the knowledge that Ren is out there, somewhere, somehow. Hopefully happy too. (Prays he has not found another Sky. Another lover she could deal with. Another Sky would break her.)

.

"May I help you?"

Fon is… significantly smaller than she'd been expecting. Just like Mammon. He's ageless in the same way and something tickles at the back of Hariel's mind, a thought that's slowly been planted ever since she handed over a sizable chunk of the Potter fortune to the greedy informant. If these two are flame users who have been cursed to an unaging body… is this what has become of her Renato? Her Sun? Mammon had been a Mist, this Fon feels like a Storm (crackling destruction on the back of her tongue) … Renato is a Sun. (There's a deep-sated fear that there'd have been a Sky too and, while Fon isn't bonded to one Mammon had been… has she been replaced by her Sun?)

"Yes. I'm looking for someone." Fingers dipping into the breast pocket of the shirt she's finally big enough to wear correctly, Hariel peels one of the three photos she has of Ren free, the one where he's hunched over his coffee. She holds it out tentatively to the Storm Arcobaleno, careful to keep herself between Mukuro and this unknown. For all that he appears delightfully calm… she's heard stories about Storm users. Heard about their tempers. While this small man is bucking every expectation she has, Hariel's hesitant to put all her trust in him.

She's well aware he could disintegrate one of the only photos she has of Ren. It's the very reason her heart is currently in her throat.

Then, then he says it.

"You're looking for Reborn?"

.

* * *

.

"You're still holding onto that then?"

Tsuna can only watch in amazement as Reborn stills, face even blanker than usual before he turns a glare upon Shamal. The teenager has never seen such untold fury in his (unwelcomed) tutor's eyes.

Evidentially, neither has Shamal; the doctor backpaddles faster than should be possible, hands held palm up in that ancient gesture of 'don't shoot'.

Reborn offers him one last look, a long, furious thing, before he turns on his heels and walks off without a word. The large blanket trails along behind him, shimmering silver and Tsuna eyes it warily. He's seen it often, it's always in Reborn's grasp whenever he goes to sleep and though he's been curious, he'd not been able to pluck up the courage to ask about it. Which, well hell, he clearly dodged a bullet there.

"Hey, you know what that blanket is?" Gokudera grunts, jabbing a thumb in the direction Reborn has just disappeared.

The doctor who'd almost let Tsuna die hums. It's not a pleasant sound.

"He's had that thing with him before we even met," Shamal finally murmurs, thumb and forefinger rubbing at his stubbly chin, "and though I don't know for fact, I have heard rumours."

"Rumours?" Tsuna repeats faintly, swallowing hard around his suddenly dry tongue.

"Yeah, though not many people dare whisper about it. You've heard about the Solar Flare Massacre, haven't you?" Tsuna has not. But going by the way Gokudera pales at the mention, that's probably for the best.

"Reborn-sama's first appearance," the silver haired teen breathes, something hollow in his tone and Tsuna's reasonably certain he doesn't want to know. It sounds scary.

"Whispers have it that Reborn killed all those people because the woman that died in his arms… well, that blanket is the last thing he has of her."

"A lover?" Gokudera chokes slightly and Tsuna grimaces, stomach churning. He cannot picture Reborn with a woman, not in the slightest. Even with Bianchi's puppy-love crush. It's just, too strange a concept.

"A little worse than that, brat. Whispers say she was his Sky."

Gokudera wobbles and though it takes him a moment to register what is being said, Tsuna feels his stomach plummet when the implications set in.

Hadn't Reborn said harmonization with a Sky Flame user was perhaps the most important bond someone could hold? And Reborn… Reborn has lost that?

Tsuna thinks on the blanket once more and solemnly resolves to never, ever mention it. Not if his demon tutor is still so clearly wounded by it. That's the best course of action for Tsuna's continued good health, after all.

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

.

"This is humiliating."

Mukuro's black words hang over them like a thunderous cloud but all Fon can do is smile. Smile and gaze wondrously at the young woman that is trudging on in front. The pacifier around his neck no longer seems like a choke-chain, stewing deep in a solution of Mist Flames, Sky Flames and magic, of all things. It is what gives him a temporary adult body now, allows him to follow so seamlessly after a Sky without a Storm, dazed and undeniably a little flame drunk. Hariel Potter had announced she'd be capable of reversing the curse with pure brute force if they stopped for a moment.

Yet, because he has given her the location of the one she seeks, they have not stopped for a minute. Consequently, he is now carrying her young Mist in a comfortable piggyback, for the teen had stumbled upon the ruined roads and sprained his ankle. That close contact with the teen ensures he remains in his temporary adult body has… well, everything to do with Fon's willingness to carry young Mukuro.

"Don't whine, Mukuro, you're better than that."

Young Mukuro huffs in reply to his Sky's chiding, the sharp edge of his chin now digging into Fon's shoulder. The World's Greatest Martial Artist doesn't care in the slightest. It's invigorating, to have multiple cobbles beneath his feet instead of having to calculate his steps in accordance to tiny feet. The wind ruffles his hair but offers no threat of knocking him over, the sun warms the crown of his head, a lover's kiss welcoming home. He had forgotten just what it had meant, to not be trapped within an infant's body.

"How long until we arrive in Namimori?"

Hariel Potter is a strange Sky. Unbothered by the need to gain other elements, focused wholly upon recovering Reborn. There had been a phonecall long ago, Fon recalls, in which Reborn had promised him a meeting with a Sky in exchange for body guarding services. He is one of the lucky few to know the actual man behind the alias of 'World's Greatest Hitman'. He is one of the few to have heard of the Solar Flare Massacre and know just what it had all meant. It seems Reborn's Sky is just as preternatural as the Sun himself.

"By all accounts, it should take only three hours on foot, even though I understand your impatience."

At that, Hariel Potter twists around to stare at him. She never stills, walking backward on sure feet.

"Do you? Renato is my Sun. For most of my life, he was my only element. He was my everything." Her eyes, incandescent in the sunlight, gleam with a fever that most would find discomforting. Fon simply tilts his head, silently requesting she proceeds with her train of thought. "I've spent years chasing him, chasing the wraith of the ghost he left behind."

Mukuro presses a finger into the tender spot between Fon's lower rib and hipbone; the Storm merely shifts the teen slightly higher on his back and keeps pace.

"It's admirable, your love for each other. Reborn refused to so much as entertain the very idea of bonding with Luce. In the end, he was the only one of us who didn't."

"And now you're hurting because of it," Hariel trails off, pivoting back around but slowing her steps until they are side by side.

"And now I hurt because of it."

Silence persists between them for a while, Mukuro having nodded off at some point. For all he puts on a marvelous show, the boy is only fifteen. Still a child desperately trying to keep up with a fully grown Sky despite his own immature flames. It'll be another year or so until they settle; there's a raw power to the boy that'll ensure he's one of the stronger Mists to develop in this decade. Perhaps the strongest.

Fon shies away from that thought, achingly aware of just what became of the previous strongest seven.

"I only have a Sun and a Mist, if you want to consider that."

"Of that, I am acutely aware. While your curse-breaking abilities are my primary concern, it is far from my only one."

.

* * *

.

"And just what do you two idiots think you are doing."

Tsuna, Tsuna's everything hurts. He can, however, stand on his own two feet. Much unlike Hibari who has gone down. Hard. He would not want to be the prefect in the morning. Nor would he want to be anyone else the demon runs into within the next few… weeks. Maybe months. Shuddering at the thought, Tsuna turns his attention to the newcomer who has so effortlessly collared Ken and Chisuka. It had taken everything Tsuna had to put down all the criminals the duo had come with, nevertheless he's still not sure why the two teenagers have agreed to work alongside them. He's even less sure of the newcomer.

The boy, perhaps a year or two Tsuna's senior, has released his hold on the duo's collars, having effortlessly forced their heads into a painful collision. He dusts one hand off on the lapels of his jacket, the other flexing and suddenly there's a trident in his hand. What the actual hell?

"Be on guard, Dame-Tsuna. He's a Mist." A mist. Right. What was a 'mist' again?

As if sensing his incompetency, Reborn clocks him around the head with Leon-gun, eyes still trained on the unknown. The teenager's hair is strange, a dark blue and the style vaguely resembling a pineapple. He gets the feeling pointing such a thing out would be a remarkably stupid idea; Tsuna's mouth wisely remains shut.

"Wha- Mukuro! What are you doing here?"

Determinedly ignoring the spluttering criminal, the newly identified Mukuro casts his gaze upon them. There must be some kind of hidden relation to Reborn; he's only ever had a gaze that cool, that analytical, sent his way by the demon-baby.

"Sawada Tsunayoshi… I have some… grievances on how the Vongola is being run. I do hope you will take the time to listen… in the future." It isn't until the eyes slide from him and instead settle on Reborn that Tsuna clicks just what is wrong. The boy has one red eye and one blue. It's… startling. Startling and creepy. "The World's Greatest Hitman. I have a Sky that wishes to speak with you."

"Not interested." The hidden 'fuck off' in Reborn's tone is so strong Tsuna feels as if it's punched him in the gut, and it's not even directed at him. Mukuro seems utterly unfazed, cocking his weight to one side to half lean on his trident.

"A shame. Hariel will be disappointed."

.

* * *

.

"Well, my life just flashed before my eyes." Quite frankly, the little bastard's life should still be flashing before his eyes. Worn shirt grasped in his tiny fist, Reborn pulls the fucker up to eye-level, standing on his chest and wholly incapable of listening to Tsuna's screeching right now.

"How do you know that name." He's shot people for far less than this. No one was supposed to know, no one was supposed to link that name to Reborn. Her memory was supposed to remain untouched, untainted by all the mistakes he makes as Reborn. Hariel Potter belongs to Renato Sinclair in a way she never could to Reborn. The purest thing he'd ever touched; how does this fucker know about her?

"Left pocket. Put it on."

Real gun pressing into a pale cheek, Reborn has Leon wiggle free to investigate.

He returns with a charm, a little drop of sunshine carved from an amber droplet. The taste of the flames upon it is the hardest hit he's taken in decades.

"Where did you get this."

"She gave it to me about twenty minutes ago. Something about not believing a word out of my mouth without evidence."

"Then why is she not here." He's lying. He's a lying bastard and Reborn will pepper him with holes the second he stops running his mouth.

"She's dealing with some fool in an iron hat."

Reborn's heart stops.

.

Mist teleportation is the only thing that saves 'Mukuro' from being shot on the spot. Reborn abandons everything; all thought has left his head barring the single shard of hope he clenches in his palm. The Sky Flames (familiar and loving and home) curl from the amber, brushing up against his own in greeting, everything Reborn has once had and lost. A part of him (the part that never stops, that's thinking even when all else has gone offline) registers that Tsuna's exhausted form has come along for the ride. The rest stalls.

The room is bathed in those flames, an endless stretch of Sky. It houses a Mist now, is tentatively cradling a Storm too.

But there is a black hole cut from the cloth, the perfect fit and shape for his Sun.

"I'll be in touch."

Reborn doesn't react in time to corner (shoot, the bastard deserves to be shot) the Man with the Iron Hat. He doesn't care.

The hair is darker; the skin has lost that lovingly given Italian tan. But he knows that stance, knows those straight shoulders and lean legs.

He moves before it's even registered in his mind, moves before he has control of his limbs as the pendant wrapped around his wrist glows.

All Reborn cares for is the Sky he now clutches to his chest, all shaking sobs hurled into his jacket and watery kisses pressed to his cheeks. All he cares about is that Hariel is here in his arms. His Sky. Alive and younger than before but so unquestionably her.

"Ren. My Ren, my Sun." She's smiling, smiling up at him and he doesn't even question it. The height difference, the way she suddenly fits oh so perfectly into arms that shouldn't be capable of holding her. It's exactly as he remembers it; the scent of her hair, the warmth of her body, the taste of her skin as he presses a kiss to her forehead.

"Innamorata," he breathes it like a prayer, with a holy reverence and he's a sinner who should never utter such a sacred word. He's a mere mortal exposed to a miracle and he cannot comprehend how. Only offer his gratitude, his every orison to the origin as he whispers it again, "Innamorata."

.

He's not overly sure how they end up on the floor, Hariel half curled into his chest with her head is tucked beneath his chin, nose against a clavicle and hands scrunching his shirt. He doesn't care. His hat is... somewhere, his own face appears to have gained two wet streaks (no one will ever breathe a word of it; otherwise they'll become a wet streak across the earth), but his Sky is in his arms. At last. Impossibly. He doesn't care for the logistics. Not anymore. Probably never again.

But then, something scrapes at the back of his mind, a dreadful reminder of why he'd been so fraught with fear.

"The Man with the Iron Hat-"

"Four decades and that's what you want to talk about," Hariel whispers, peeling her face back from his shirt. He's never seen her cry, there's never been any reason for her to do so before. It's not a pretty sight; red-rimmed eyes, flushed cheeks, runny nose.

It's the most beautiful thing Reborn has seen in years.

"Ren. Ren, I've missed you."

.

* * *

.

When Hayato wakes, it's to a startling lack of pain and the clear ceiling of the Tenth's guest bedroom. For a moment he lays there in the bed, body still and mind racing. Then he's up, shooting to the door and yanking it open. He can hear the Tenth's high, nervous voice, can practically taste his Sky's confusion and hesitance and that is all Hayato needs to know before he's barrelling down the stairs.

Stumbling the last step into the living room, Hayato's eyes quickly flicker across all the faces present, freezing when he spots the Hibari-bastard sitting up to table, drinking a cup of tea. He's fully prepared to bodily dive in front of the tenth (in the comforts of the Tenth's home or not, they all know Hibari won't hold back for anything or anyone) when the eye-colour registers. Red. The bastard prefect's eyes are silver, not red. Which means, unless the fucker got hit over the head real hard (and somehow grew his hair out a ridiculously amount), this isn't Hibari.

A quick sweep of the room reveals three other faces he doesn't know; Reborn is absent. Instead, someone who looks like he could be the hitman's father is sitting on the couch, one arm thrown over the shoulders of the redhead beside him. He's eyeing the other teen, the one with the pineapple-shaped hair, with thinly veiled suspicion. The expression isn't returned; the boy with two different eyes smiles back as serenely as the Hibari-copy. That in itself is freaky. That expression does not belong on Hibari's face, and this guy is wearing Hibari's face. Or… is Hibari wearing his face? Is it a clone? An UMA? His fingers itch for a pen and paper, but he forces himself to focus. He's the Tenth's man now, and the Tenth needs him in this room of unknowns.

Hayato takes a stance beside his Boss, eying the four. Reborn's dad, Hibari's clone, the Pineapple, and wine-head. She's watching him with green eyes, far too saturated in colour to ever be compared against his own.

"Good morning, Hayato, is it? How are you feeling?" Winehead peels herself away from Reborn's Dad's side (holy shit, is this Reborn's Mum? Step-mum? They share no features; not like the dangerous man she's been leaning against does) and leans forwards to address him. Hayato instantly bristles.

"Listen here yo-" The ringing of a gunshot cuts off any words that Hayato is going to spit out, cheek burning from how precariously close that bullet had come to impacting on him. Reborn's Dad is now glaring at him, one hand wrapped around a green gun (Leon Dad?) as his hat shadows his eyes.

"Watch your words."

"Don't shoot the children!" Winehead jabs Reborn's Dad in the side, scowling as Pineapple chokes out a laugh.

"How else am I supposed to train them, Inamorata? I am contracted to tutor the Tenth boss of the Vongola." Contracted to what... Oh. Oh. This isn't Reborn's Dad at all.

"Tenth… Tenth… Is that… is that Reborn?" Tenth, who has been totally silent and hasn't so much as shuffled from his seat, nods minutely. Hayato drops onto the sofa cushions to sit beside him, his own limbs trembling. Oh. This is… oh. Winehead shuffles and Reborn (motherfucking Reborn who is supposed to be very small but is now very tall) takes the opportunity to pull her into his lap.

Hayato feels very uncomfortable right now.

"It's nice to meet you, Hayato. I was just telling Tsuna-kun that, because Ren's here, I'll be sticking around too. I'm more than happy to help with your flames, Tsuna-kun," she directs this part to Tenth, smiling and abruptly she's terribly pretty with her warm eyes and rosy cheeks, before her attention returns to him. "Fon is my Storm and- wait, Fon, are you sticking around?"

It's the Hibari-clone that answers, having apparently finished inhaling his tea. The cup is empty but Hayato sure as hell didn't see him sipping at it. "I would prefer to remain in the same general vicinity as my Sky while the bond is fresh, Hariel. Aiding young Hayato with his flames would be no hardship."

"Who the hell are you?" Hayato finally grits out, hissing as another bullet streaks across his other cheek.

"G-Gokudera!" Shit, he's upset the Tenth. And Reborn is burning holes in his head. Winehead just huffs, a finger and thumb pinched on Reborn's cheek to gently pull the skin in a silent rebuke.

"It's a valid question, Tsuna-kun. And Ren, once more and I swear to god-"

"I want my shirt back."

"You hate this shirt!" Winehead grumbles, trying to swat Reborn-sama's hand off the sleeve of the shirt she's wearing. Hayato doesn't understand in the slightest; it looks exactly like every other shirt Reborn wears. Just… adult-sized.

"I hated that shirt. Past tense."

"You never change your mind."

"I've never had a Sky be reborn and spend years wearing my shirt. I want it back, Inamorata."

Winehead huffs, tugging the collar of what is evidentially Reborn's shirt. Astonishingly, she ignores Reborn's further attempts to peel the shirt off of her shoulder, one hand settling on his knee. Hayato sees her give the slightest squeeze before he becomes too uncomfortable to keep looking.

"My name is Hariel Potter. I'm Ren's Sky."

* * *

 **I may someday present you with another chapter of how the Varia's trigger-happy ways fucked them over' and a 'how Mammon had to refund Hariel (with interest)', but for now, we're done.**

 **Tsume  
xxx**


End file.
